


Peripheral

by mycrofts_brolly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dragon!Lock, M/M, Magical Creatures, Mrs. Hudson runs an inn for magical creatures, tags to be updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-01-29 17:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12635991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycrofts_brolly/pseuds/mycrofts_brolly
Summary: After a mishap with a case forces a promising detective inspector to flee London and take up shelter in a remote inn, a series of bizarre events may just lead the D.I to the answers he needs to return safely. These answers come with a cost, however, one Gregory may not be willing to pay after learning about the world hidden just outside of his view.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my unofficial Nanowrimo project! The idea for this little story came to me rather suddenly, and I decided to roll with it. If you're a reader of The Cheese Stands Alone, don't worry, I'll be returning to updating that in December. This is my little break, my vacation. Hopefully you'll enjoy it just as much as I do.

“I swear to god if I have to unclog another goddamn toilet, I’m going to go mental.” Greg muttered, listening to his back crack as he stood up from the tile flooring in front of the mentioned offender. He held the plunger carefully above the floor, not willing to get any of that nasty water on the floor. If he did, he’d be the one cleaning it.

There was a snort from the doorway, “I believe you can handle a few more toilets. Have to earn your keep somehow, dear.”

A heavy sigh filled the air. Greg wasn’t even aware of the air leaving his lungs, “Mrs. Hudson…” He began, turning around in the limited room that the inn’s bathroom offered, “You know I haven’t got a choice.”

Mrs. Hudson was standing, leaning against the doorframe with a faint smile on her face that eased the growing frustration Greg was having with his situation, “I know. I was only joking.” She stepped aside as Greg started to head out of the bathroom, “But this place does need help on the upkeep. I can’t do it all alone anymore.”

Hesitating with a reply, Greg glanced away from his employer, focusing instead on the four post bed that dominated the bedroom, “Anyways, this room’s all good for the next guest.” Still minding the plunger, Greg walked over to the door of the room, pausing, “If you need me, I’ll be in my room. You can just page me or whatnot.” He stepped around Mrs. Hudson and headed into the hallway without another wasted moment. 

Most of the doors on the first floor were shut but the rooms they protected were empty. The old inn Greg had called his home for the last two weeks did not have the greatest number of patrons. Part of that could likely be attributed to the inn’s location way out in the moors far away from any common tourist area and that Greg was fairly sure that Mrs. Hudson never put out any advertisements for the little Baker Lane Inn. Somehow, however, there were still guests and a few longer staying inhabitants that came and went from the place on a sluggish basis. 

The last door that Greg passed before heading down the stairs to the ground floor was home to one such inhabitant. Greg had dealt with the man a few times, but both of them tended to keep to themselves instead of making friends. His name had been Sherlock Holmes, and he had been an odd one at that. The man was a recluse if Greg had ever seen one. 

Passing by the door, Greg could smell the faint burn of sulfur. Hopefully that wouldn’t be another mess, or fire, on the list of things Greg would have to tend to before dinner. The DI wasn’t sure if he had the energy to deal with Sherlock or his eccentricities today.

Stairs creaking under his steps, Greg made his way down to the first floor and past the tastefully decorated entrance area to the maintenance closet. “Where the hell did I put that key…” He muttered, rooting around in his pocket with his free hand until he managed to wrangle the rusty old piece of metal free from the bottomless confines of the pocket. Unlocking and opening the door, Greg set the plunger down just inside and shut the door behind him. It clicked and locked behind him. “That’s that.”

Greg headed down the hallway to the right of the entrance area. There were only a few doors in this part of the inn, mostly for storage or Mrs. Hudson’s own personal belongings that she wanted to keep out of prying and thieving hands. At the very end of the hallway there was a worn door that had some scratches over the surface and around the doorknob. That was the door to the room Greg had called his own since he’d run from London. Dear god. Was it really only two or so weeks ago? 

Sighing, which seemed to be a common occurrence of his recently, Greg opened the door to his room and felt the immediate relief of being somewhere hidden away wash over him. The room wasn’t in the best shape. Covering the floor, and the faded carpet, were the limited articles of clothing Greg had bothered to bring along. It was surprising how little clothing it took to make a mess, Greg mused to himself as he sidestepped around the collecting pile of clothes that desperately needed a wash sometime soon. There was an empty dresser alongside the far wall that Greg had refused to put his stuff into. It felt too permanent to do that. Greg was drawn to the messy bed that was pushed up besides the only window in the room. Despite being on the tiny end of room size, the room seemed a little bit bigger with the large window that overlooked the rolling moors outside. That alone let in enough natural light to make the room more welcoming.

It was welcoming enough for Greg to collapse onto the bed to bury his face into the pillow and let out a miserable groan. Sure, the inn was nice, and the work wasn’t too bad. He missed his ugly flat that was a brief walk down the street from NSY, missed the hectic pace of his work, and missed his team. “Goddamn.” Greg muttered into the pillow. The stale stench of the old pillow caught on his tongue. Pulling away from the pillow, Greg sat up and glanced out the window to watch the wind kick up over the moors as a storm began to blow in. Rain knocked on the window as the sky darkened. 

Greg settled in on the bed while his attention drifted out the window. The rain picked up, pouring down and pelting against the glass as night began to creep in. As the fog drifted in to blanket the nearby hills, Greg’s mind wandered back to a similar night to this one, one a few weeks back where he’d been returning home from work just in time to answer a ringing phone. That phone call had turned his entire life inside out and upside down in only a matter of minutes. A few hours later, Greg had found himself being driven out of London with nothing more than a single bag of clothing by a member from another team from the Yard. The drive had lasted far longer than Greg found comfortable and it ended with him being dropped off outside of some small village that Greg hadn’t heard about before. He’d spent the rest of the day, the little that was left of it, wandering around the village until he’d come up to the inn that Mrs. Hudson was running. 

Two weeks had passed since. Greg wasn’t convinced he’d ever be allowed back to London. Or even just back to his job. He wasn't close to retirement at thirty two, but he wasn't young enough to feel comfortable turning his life completely over. Damn it all. 

The rain outside lashed against the windows with an unfounded fury. It was bleak and dreary out, with the sun down and the night having finally settled in on the moors. Greg turned away from the window. Couldn't see much out there anymore anyways. 

Rising from the bed with a grumble, the DI in hiding made his way out of the mess of a room and back out into the ground floor hallway. If the churning of his stomach was any indication of the time, then dinner should be almost ready. It was the only meal Mrs. Hudson would prepare for the guests. She claimed it was a way of being a proper hostess and that it was only polite to offer something at least once a day. The other meals, however, Greg was on his own for those. After taking a whiff of the hunger inducing aroma of fresh, hot dinner, Greg’s feet didn't drag along so heavily on the carpet as he made his way to the dining room. 

As with everything else in the inn, the dining room had an air of elegance about it but it didn't shout it in one’s face. Everything was proper and neatly organized. Even the chairs were lined up in an orderly way that was relaxing on the eyes. Greg sighed in relief, for once.

Mrs. Hudson waved a hello from the head of the table, where she'd already begun to eat. Waving back, Greg made his way to the little buffet table setup along the wall and started to fill out his plate while his stomach grumbled.

“Quite the storm, isn't it?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice rose in the form of a curious question. It had weight to it that Greg didn't miss, as if it was more than harmless curiosity. 

“Yeah,” Greg answered, looking over his shoulder to the inn owner, “Blew in pretty quick. Didn't even know we were getting one tonight.”

There. A quirk to the lips that Greg had seen before when he'd finally stated what a criminal had wanted to hear. What game was Mrs. Hudson playing at? “Sometimes the weather is unpredictable at best.” She paused, listening. Greg took a seat one down from her. “I wonder if Sherlock will be joining us.”

“Hah.” Snorting in amusement at the thought of Sherlock joining them, Greg shook his head.The reclusive bugger had barely shown his face since Greg had arrived. “I doubt he will. The few times I've seen him, he's either been smoked out of his room or he's gone to fetch something from the fridge up on the second floor. I don't even think he eats, if I'm honest.”

Snickering, Mrs. Hudson didn't even flinch as a roar of thunder shook the inn. She opened her mouth to speak, but the noise of someone running, or maybe more likely falling, down the creaking, groaning steps cut her off. 

Greg turned in his chair to see a tall, lanky man standing in the doorway of the dining room. He was wearing a ridiculously large charcoal trench coat, which alone might have earned him the title of mad man but his fevered eyes took that chance first. 

“Graham!” He barked, taking a step into the dining room, “Come along.”

“Excuse me? Name’s Greg, Sherlock. I've told each of the four times I've seen you.” Holding back the urge to cuss at being ordered along like a puppy dog, Greg set his silverware down and leaned back in the chair, “Go where, exactly?”

Sherlock huffed. He folded his arms to his chest like a pouting toddler, “Graham, Greg, Gavin… It’s all the same. And outside, of course. I need to retrieve my brother and I require assistance.” 

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes so hard, Greg swore he could hear the disappointment she was expressing. His attention was diverted back to Sherlock as he heard the door crack open and the pouring rain land inside in wet ‘plot’ noises. “Goddamn it, Sherlock!” Letting out a sigh that left his lungs empty, Greg stood from the table, “Can't let him go out in this weather alone. He was wearing a wool jacket, for god’s sake!” 

“Go help him. I'll put your plate in the microwave so it'll stay warm,” Mrs. Hudson stood as Greg headed out into the connecting hallway that lead to the foyer where Sherlock had left from. She paused, “Greg, be careful. These storms… You never know what's out there.” 

“I'll keep it in mind. Thank you.” Replying to the cryptic help, Greg shouldered on a spare raincoat and grabbed a torch that was hung on the coat rack for times like these. He slipped on his sneakers and threw open the door of the inn. 

The rain attacked his face without mercy. It felt as if thousands of sharp, cold needles were piercing his skin as he headed off after the quickly fading figure of Sherlock that had been illuminated by the inn’s lights. It was an eerie sight out there with the faint orange glow of the inn’s lighting catching on the falling raindrops and the shallow yet fierce rivers of water that ran along the gravel pathways. Greg’s breath formed clouds as he followed after Sherlock up into the slick moors. His shoes has soaked through the first few moments after being outside, and now he wasn't sure if he even had shoes on as every step felt like he was walking through a puddle. Sherlock, however, was moving up over the first hill without a single misstep, and Greg’s torch was barely cutting through the rain enough to show the man. 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice was muted and distorted by the storm’s wailing. The rain pelted down on Greg as he clambered up the slope after Sherlock. 

Breaths coming in rapid pants as he reached the top of the hill, hands covered in mud from grasping at the banks and shoes thoroughly soaked past the point of comfort, Greg stood just beside Sherlock while he continued to shout. “Why… the fuck… is your brother out here… in this storm?” 

Sherlock ignored him with a pointed stare that, even with the drowning rain, clearly conveyed that Greg was some special sort of idiot. He went back to shouting over the deafening storm. “Mycroft! I know you're out here! Come on, you fat reptile!”

“Reptile?” Greg muttered to himself. Maybe he'd misheard. The storm’s wind was starting to pick up…

There was a faint rumbling from the left side of them. Greg’s heart stammered instinctively, as if the insignificant noise was one he should fear without hesitation. A switch inside of him had been flipped on. His hands shook at his sides, and it wasn't from the cold seeping in through the thin rain jacket. No. It was the adrenaline coursing through him. He felt the urge to run, to hide. To be anywhere but here, on top of the cursed hill with bloody Sherlock. 

A raindrop fell on the bridge of his nose.

Something flashed over his vision. Something… Impossible. 

Greg couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. But he could hear.

“Goddamn it, Mycroft.”


	2. Doubts

Greg’s feet faltered on the slippery, rain slicked grass. There was an eternity between one moment and the next as his mind struggled to comprehend what was crouching in front of him, fangs bared. Instead of trying to come to a conclusion if he was high, deranged, or if Sherlock had spiked his water again, Greg found himself counting the raindrops as they landed on his face. It was the only thing that felt real enough to ground himself.

One. Two. 

The beast took a clumsy step forwards. Its body swayed with weight, its wings held at odd angles at its sides as it slunk closer like a cat stalking its prey. A snarling noise shook the air.

Five. Six. Seven.

Sherlock must’ve shouted something as Greg could feel the echo of unheard words in his ear. In front of him, the silvery blue beast tilted its head, revealing a ragged row of knife-edged teeth where each was at least the length of Greg’s hand or longer. Grey eyes flashed like lightning as they studied Greg. 

Eight.

One breath in, one stammered breath out. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening.

Nine. Ten. Elev-

With a thunderous roar - maybe this monster had made that thunderous noise earlier, Greg wondered in the whisper between a heartbeat and another - the beast finally pushed off of the ground with an ungraceful movement that launched its weight directly into Gregory.

Raindrops became a river as his face was pushed into the mud and rainwater streaming over the grass. With the taste of earth and grim in his mouth, Greg hacked, trying to sit up as daggers pressed into the muscles of his shoulders. If this was a hallucination, it was certainly a convincing one. Spitting out a clot of mud as the grit of sand ground against his teeth, Greg couldn’t wipe the water away from his eyes as he struggled to throw off the pressure pinning him down. Distantly, someone shouted, and Greg could faintly make out the sound of soaking wet footsteps struggling to get closer. 

It was only when he felt a hot puff of air stir his eyelashes that Greg finally found the guts to glance up at the beast pinning him to the soggy ground. Rain dripped off of the scaled snout to land on Greg’s already wet face. He blinked. The beast exhaled again, mouth open with those dangerous fangs exposed, hanging only a few inches away from Greg’s vulnerable face. Greg could count the number of times his life had flashed before his eyes on one hand and with those canines dripping water down onto his forehead, this definitely counted as one of those times. His eyes followed the natural lines of the scales to the beast’s storm grey eyes. The intelligence there, the emotions that flickered at the edges like the fog around them, caught Greg off guard. A knot swelled in Greg’s throat as those emotions tended towards pain. 

“He’s injured, Graham.” Sherlock’s voice cut through the din of the storm. The beast shuddered and its head swiveled around to the source of Sherlock’s voice. A low rumble rose, and Greg could feel it vibrate down through the claws digging into his shoulder and felt that vibration travel into his chest. 

Greg snorted, and the beast swept its massive, scaled and horned head to stare down at him. Swallowing hard, Greg’s eyes wandered over to where he could just make out Sherlock’s boots, “Did you put something in my water again, Sherlock?” There was a noise from the beast above that sounded akin to a deep, rolling laugh. If beasts could laugh, that was. 

The man sighed loud enough for Greg to hear it over the rainfall, “No, I did not.” He paused, the rumbling noise interrupting him, “And it’s not funny, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s tone was a pouting one that hardened into a demanding one, “Dear god, he’s got a sense of humor tonight. He must have hit his head on a rock when he broke that wing.” Greg listened as Sherlock trudged around him and the thing pinning him that Greg still refused to put the name to. It was just a thing. It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real. Dragons weren’t-

“No, I did not hit my head. Did he?” That. That was not Sherlock’s voice. It was far too deep, too rough along the edges like sandpaper. And it was far too close, with the heat of the words brushing over Greg’s cheeks.

Turning his head back up to stare at the - dare he name it? - beast, Greg’s breath froze in his throat. The beast had a sly grin, faint, but it was there. “Uch.” Finding breath to speak now was difficult with the pressure from the beast pressing him into the mud and with the mental pressure of a reality folding in on itself like a fragile piece of origami. Greg wasn’t sure if the lack of oxygen to his brain was causing him to think up the beast’s voice and words, or if he was completely out of it at this point with said brains dashed out over some rock. 

A taloned paw removed itself from Greg’s chest. The physical pressure lifted, but that only meant that the mental pressure could continue to cause Greg’s thoughts to implode. Coughing, Greg sat up as his body reacted like a spring would when released. His heart fluttered wildly in his chest. The grass slipped out from under his muddied shows as he struggled to get up. Knees slamming into the ground a few times before he finally got traction, Greg stood on uncertain legs, blinking rain out from his eyes. Everything was soaked. Everything was covered in mud, and his pants and shirt were plastered to his skin even with the rain jacket he was wearing. 

In front of him, with one wing held at an angle that looked uncomfortable compared to the other, stood a beast Greg knew couldn’t exist. It felt as if his heart was running a race in his chest with all the hammering and jumping it was doing in there as his eyes took in the sight of a bedraggled dragon. Thoughts screaming it couldn’t be, but eyes screaming it was, Greg took an unsteady step forwards. The beast stayed still, eyes studying every movement Greg made as he inched closer. Shoes sloshing with water, Greg somehow managed to stay upright until he could feel the beast’s breath across his face again. A curious head tilt was the singular reaction he noticed from the scaled monster to his approach, which gave Greg the silent go ahead to continue closer. Somehow, his hand found its way to the underside of the beast’s jaw, feeling over the ridges and scales there with unbounded fascination. Behind him, Sherlock inhaled sharply, but in front of him the large beast went from tense to relaxed as its pained eyes glassed over a little. A steady noise, softer and gentler, rose from the beast’s throat. 

“You should not do that. I’m surprised he hasn’t bitten your hand off yet.” Sherlock remarked with a trace of worry. 

Another churring noise rose from the beast as it shifted its one good wing tightly against its side. It took a step forwards, so Greg stepped out of its way. He still couldn’t think straight, couldn’t process what was in front of him. Everything felt light and off, like he was floating and sinking at the same time while slowly drowning in his thoughts. 

Sherlock’s figure seemed to waver in the rain, and Greg felt the ground shift under his feet. Electricity raced up his arm as he reached out too slowly to catch himself. The ground met Greg’s face for the second time that night as the edges of Greg’s vision faded to black. 

“Shit. You’re helping me carry him, Mycroft.”

“Me? I can barely walk myself.”

The sound of two voices bickering faded out as the cold settled in on Greg’s bones.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Greg woke in his bed with a start that had his entire body shivering afterwards. The shivering didn’t ease up as he gathered the blankets close to his skin when he realized he was naked. “What in the-” Everything ached under the surface, and Greg slowly sat up. His thoughts were as sluggish as his movements while he gazed around his messy room, searching for any sort of clothing that might be clean enough to be worn. 

A few moments of distracted gazing around and Greg had finally managed to put together an outfit that would hopefully pass as clean enough. The shirt was itchy, and the jeans had a couple of fainted stains from work, but they'd pass. 

It wasn't until Greg’s hand was on the doorknob that he saw the discarded clothes from the night before laying next to the radiator. Shivers passed across his skin like the rain had, and he froze. The clothes were muddied and covered in blades of grass and dirt clods. A small puddle of water had formed under them. Greg’s breath caught in his throat. There wasn't any way in hell that what had happened last night had been real. Not possible in the slightest. 

Mrs. Hudson had to know what happened. Greg threw open the door without hesitation. Like always, the hotel was oddly quiet, as if holding in its breath, but there was an occasional, random thud as if someone was running into the walls. That alone was enough to put a sense of wrong along Greg’s spine. As he made his way down the hallway with wariness for whatever was going on in the main foyer while the noises grew louder. It sounded similar to someone working on the woodwork of the hotel but the unfamiliar voices cutting through the clashes, cracks, and bangs were too indistinguishable for Greg to tell what they were saying. They sounded absolutely peeved, whatever they were doing.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Greg called. His voice wavered as he neared the entrance to the foyer. A scratching noise like claws on wood filled the air. “Mrs. Hudson!” 

The welcomed sight of Mrs. Hudson’s open face popped around the corner of the doorframe, “Yes, Greg?” Her brows glistened with sweat, and her hair was ruffled and flying every which way. Greg paled. “No, no. It's not- It's not what you're thinking.” 

“Alright, then what is it? What happened last night?” Greg’s heart churned in his chest as the confusion at last night’s events returned. He didn't trust many people to give him the facts straight, least of all himself after what he'd seen, but even in her current state Mrs. Hudson seemed the best bet he had for getting any sort of answer. 

Mrs. Hudson rolled her lips. A moment of quiet hesitation followed, only to be shattered by another series of words belonging to a voice Greg didn't know. 

“Best if you just follow me.” She finally stated, eyes weary. Without any further words or explanation, Mrs. Hudson stepped out from the foyer and motioned Greg inside, “Last night, a guest arrived. Sherlock’s brother.” 

Greg went after her. That wasn't any sort of new information. He couldn't help against sighing tiredly, “Yes, I know that. I remember running out into that storm after bloody Sherlock, who's, by the way, a raving mad man. He left me out there after I must've hit my head or something! My clothes are soaked and I've only-”

“I thought you said he hadn't hit his head, brother mine.” 

That voice. That damnable, fucking voice was back. And it was in the room. 

With an unsteady breath as the nerves within him ground up whatever notion of understanding Greg had had, Greg turned to see the same massive beast crouching in a living room that was far larger than Greg remembered it.

“That's it. I've gone mad.” Turning on his heels to exit the room before he started picturing dancing fairies in tutus or some crap, Greg felt his notion of reality slipping through his fingers. 

Mrs. Hudson, however, clearly had other plans as she stepped between Greg and the exit back to the hallway. The beast regarded Greg calmly. “You did not tell me he was a Mundane, Mrs. Hudson. I thought they were not able to locate your lodgings?” Its voice rumbled through the air as if it owned it. 

“You know as well as I do, Mycroft, that this place appears to whoever needs it. It just tends to dislike Mundanes.” Mrs. Hudson retorted. She still didn't budge, and Greg felt ridiculously lost in whatever was going on around him. I must still be passed out on the moor. He thought, his throat tightening and his stomach knotting as his body realized that was obviously not the case. 

The beast- Mycroft- snorted. Greg finally risked a glance back to him. His left wing was tucked tightly to his side as expected, or at least, as Greg’s experience with birds or bats told him, and yet the right hung down at an awkward angle that made thoughts of a broken arm rise in Greg’s mind. Silvery eyes followed Greg’s as Greg took in the sight of the beast in the living room. A lithe, scaled tail swept across the wooden flooring, the saber tipped edge glinting in the antique lighting. The beast’s chest rose and fell with each breath. Greg could feel the heat from the exhales stirring the air in the room. It wasn't the dagger-like talons scratching at the wooden floor, or even the piercing fangs that slightly protruded from the mouth of the beast that held Greg’s attention, no, it was the faint shuffling of the dark silver, iridescent scales that drew him in. 

Greg hadn't noticed his feet moving forwards without thought, but he noticed the minute he was face to face with the beast once again. “I didn't hit my head.” He murmured, thoughts quieted as he tried to comprehend exactly everything that had happened and was happening. 

Something akin to amusement flashed in Mycroft’s eyes, “No. You did not.” 

“You're real. I'm not crazy.” Greg muttered the words, feeling a weight lift from his back only to feel another, larger one, come crashing down.

Mycroft tilted his head, “No, you're not crazy.” He paused, but Greg was too busy worrying about his entire existence to notice. “You are having a mental crisis, however. Breathe. Come on, Inspector, breathe.” 

Something prodded Greg’s back. It was sharp enough to jolt him into breathing, and Greg felt the air rush back into his stagnant lungs. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath. The weight lifted from his chest. Looking down, Greg saw a scaled tail resting around his feet as if it were worried he might have another panic attack. “Thanks, I s’pose.” 

“None needed.” Mycroft replied. The tail lingered near Greg’s feet, however. 

“Glad you didn't try to flay him to bits this time, brother.” Sherlock quipped up. Greg flinched, the sudden intrusion making his nerves jolt back to life. He felt like he could run a marathon with all the nervous energy coursing through him. 

Sherlock was sitting in one of the lounge chairs with his legs folded and his eyes obviously fixed on his brother and Greg. There was an intention in his expression that Greg couldn't place, but it made him feel like a bug under a microscope. Not good. Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat as Sherlock stood, “Sherlock, I'm not entirely sure Greg’s in the right state for his entire grasp on reality to be broken.”

“He's already seen Mycroft! He's here inside of the inn. Whatever concept of reality he had before now clearly doesn't apply anymore. The least I can do is provide him a proper understanding of what's happening here.” Sherlock retorted. His steps echoed throughout the halls as he strode up to Greg. Then, Sherlock was flat on the floor, cussing like a sailor.

An amused snort rose from Mycroft as his tail returned to resting at Greg’s feet. “Brother dear, you of all people could not be expected to give a proper understanding of anything to someone unfamiliar with the thing in question, let alone explaining to a Mundane how he's seeing what appears to be a dragon in the inn’s living room.” The intelligent eyes flickered back to Greg. “You may ask any questions you have, then we’ll go from there. In most circumstances I would not have an open discussion, especially one regarding an entire… world that's hidden for good reason, but I'm afraid this no longer qualifies as most circumstances.” 

Greg was almost convinced he could smell the tang of smoke as his thoughts clambered over one another at a furious pace. Finally, one question broke through. “Your wing? Will it heal?”

“My wing?” Mycroft echoed. He turned his head to glance at it before returning his gaze to Greg, “It will be alright. There's a… specialist arriving later today to set it right and heal it. After that, I won't be stuck like this.”

The answer took a heartbeat to process, “Stuck like that? What do you mean?” Greg echoed back. He could feel his lips moving, and could feel the air leaving his lungs, but he couldn't tell what was making his lips move. He wasn't even sure where these questions were coming from as he couldn't make heads or tails of his own thoughts. 

“I do not typically take this form. I'm mainly human in appearance, but when I'm injured in one form, I cannot change to the other due to complications.” Mycroft’s reply drew an understanding nod from Greg. Or as understanding as Greg could manage with his entire existence turned inside out. 

Mycroft moved, carefully and slowly laying down on his good wing. Unable to help but notice the similarity between Mycroft’s graceful movements and a cat’s, Greg was distracted again. His mind snapped to another question when he caught sight of Mycroft's talons resting on the floor, “Last night…”

Before he was even able to get the question out fully, Mycroft’s silver eyes were ice daggers pointed straight at Gregory, “I did not mean you harm. I was stunned, and concerned for my own well being and Sherlock’s as I did not recognize you at first. I apologize.”

“Did someone record that? My brother apologizing?” Sherlock interjected again. He hadn't moved off of the floor, and was laying with his head resting on his arms as he watched and listened. 

Mrs. Hudson, who had been leaning against the doorframe for most of the time, frowned at Sherlock’s question.

Mycroft huffed, puffing up a little as Greg could imagine an offended porcupine might, “I apologize when necessary Sherlock. Barring you from keeping your… specimens in the fridge here does not require an apology.” His head turned back to Greg as he lifted it off the floor enough to keep eye contact, “I will not threaten you again, Gregory. You're welcome to sit and stay, and ask more questions as you see fit.” 

Taking a seat ungracefully on the floor, Greg planned to do just that. His mind was still numb, and his thoughts had no clear train, but Mycroft had answers. Answers were something Gregory needed. At least if this was some mad dream then maybe he'd have learned something. 

Sherlock stood and made his way over to Mrs. Hudson. Eyes alight with mischief, he leaned in close and whispered, “Twenty quid that he doesn't tell Greg.”

“Tell him what?” Mrs. Hudson’s face contorted with confusion for only a breath of a second before understanding smoothed it over, “I'll take my chances. You're on, Sherlock."


	3. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's wing is set and healed, and more questions linger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was far longer than I meant it to be, but it just kept going in a way that didn't leave me with an appropriate place to stop. I didn't want to leave it awkwardly in the middle of an explanation or a situation, so it's a bit longer than usual. Enjoy the Not-so-little update!

In the span of a heartbeat, two hours had passed as Greg chatted with Mycroft. A serious headache had begun to rise behind his eyes as his brain tried to process everything, but it ebbed back when Mycroft’s tail would gently nudge his shoulder. The two had settled into a gentle pattern of question, answer, and more questions.  


“So… To sum it all up, I’ve been completely unaware to…. Everything you’ve mentioned? Fairies, dragons, magic… It’s all real?” Greg murmured with his head resting on his hands as he tried to process it all. Mycroft’s tail rested at his feet, tapping away in a way that reminded Greg of someone tapping their feet restlessly.  


Mycroft let out a smokey sigh. It wasn’t an impatient one, Greg could tell that, but he couldn’t make out exactly what it was. The rumbling voice answered, “Yes, to a degree. Some Mundanes like yourself are aware of this other ‘plane’ of existence, but for the most part it’s been kept hidden away since the Dark Ages. I’m sure you can imagine why given your own reaction to seeing me.” He paused, studying Greg for a moment, and seeing the confusion there, continued on, “It’s not easy to hide. Most of spend our lives as normal as you do, going to jobs, shopping in stores, visiting family, and such. Anything surreal is usually kept private, or in protected areas like the inn here.”  


Thoughts tumbled through Greg’s mind at the idea of something that large hiding just under his nose his entire life. Even through his police career and all the investigations he’d never even had so much of a hint towards any of this, or a body, or evidence, or anything. It was rending his mind incapable of thought but drowning it in thoughts at the same time.  


“Easy, Gregory.” The insanely intelligent grey eyes focused straight on Greg again, and Greg felt himself sinking back down to a balanced level of being overwhelmed. “Don’t forget to breathe.”  


It was then that Greg could feel his lungs shrinking in on themselves, shriveling up in his chest while his throat constricted. He inhaled rapidly. The brief rush that left him feeling tilted had him leaning against Mycroft’s side just before the wing, “Thanks. Didn’t realize it was happening again.” His head was spinning, but at least now it wasn’t threatening to toss him off into the abyss of his thoughts. Greg could handle this.  
“You’re welcome.” Mycroft purred back quietly. Those silver eyes closed shut, but the purring didn’t stop. It was like a cat’s, but much deeper and more rattling. Greg’s teeth chattered in his mouth.  


A subtle warmth was starting to seep under Greg’s skin as he sat there. He was nearly lulled off into sleep, and likely would have too, if it wasn’t for Sherlock prancing in.  


“John’s here.” Sherlock announced. He took up a seat in the chair across from his brother’s sprawled out form. If Mycroft’s eyes could be intense, Sherlock’s were demanding and singular.  


Greg stuttered out of his sleepy trance as the scaled mass next to him stirred anxiously. The purring was cut off and Mycroft started to stand up. Something lurched in Greg’s chest at the sight of how pained Mycroft looked as his injured wing shifted as he stood. Mycroft’s eyes lingered on Greg after he’d stood and the pain was more than evident in the gaze they exchanged. “Good. I’m tired of sitting around like this.” Mycroft muttered, standing with his head held low to the ground.  


The man who entered the room wasn’t at all what Greg was expecting. Being an officer, Greg knew someone of rank when he saw them, and John seemed to fill the room more than Greg’s newest scaly friend. He was wearing a jumper and trousers, something that was juxtaposed with the feeling John pushed into the room. “Mycroft.” John’s voice was raspy but it wasn’t gritty in the same way that Mycroft’s was.  


Mycroft let out an annoyed groan, “John.” It was obvious that the two knew each other, and Greg could see by the slight glint in Mycroft’s eyes that the relationship wasn’t the best. Claws scratched on the floor in barely masked annoyance, “Let’s get us over this, shall we?”  


John had a bemused expression at the hissed acknowledgement, “Yes, we should.” His attention briefly settled on Greg, “Who’s this? A Mundane?”  


Greg bristled at the question. He didn’t enjoy feeling out of his own, and the curious gaze that John was holding on him had Greg’s hair rising on the back of his neck. “I’m Greg Lestrade. I’ve been here for a little while. Yes, I’m a Mundane.”  


“John Watson, doctor.” He paused, eying Mycroft who had slipped his head slightly between John and Greg in a manner that appeared to be protective. Greg was sure that it wasn’t, but the annoyed grumble rising from Mycroft’s maw told another story. “Easy, Mycroft. I was only returning the introduction.” The scaled head didn’t budge. John sighed and stepped closer, crossing the room with confident steps. “Let’s get this over with, yeah? How’d you break your wing that badly simply flying back from the Conclave?”  


The large head swiveled towards John with a low, dangerous snarl. Taking a wary step away from the exposed fangs that were shone, Greg stepped out of the middle of the confrontation. Mycroft’s silver eyes flared with annoyance, “I have no reason to explain myself to you.” That dagger tipped tail skittered back and forth along the wooden flooring.  


“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bite my partner, Scalecroft.” Sherlock calmly interjected as he watched Mycroft’s annoyance express itself in potentially dangerous ways. “I need him for experimenting with spells.”  


A hot rush of air caused the tassels of the rug to tremble as Mycroft lowered his head down in defeat. His eyes darted from Sherlock in the chair to John, who was surveying Mycroft’s battered wing, and then they lingered on Greg. The DI felt a knot grow in his throat at the expression in Mycroft’s eyes. It wasn’t a pleasant one. A few days earlier, Greg would’ve denied that a scaled beast could express so much emotion through a simple glance, but here he was, silently communicating with Mycroft without an issue. Mycroft’s maw angled towards Greg when John stepped in close to the injured wing.  


John’s voice cracked the tension, “Greg, hold his head. I don’t want him moving as I try to gauge the injury.”  


It wasn’t an entirely surprising order from John, given that Mycroft was about as large as a small bus and likely far more dangerous when in pain. Greg’d seen that first hand the night before and he definitely wasn’t going to risk the large beast going back into a similar pained rage. Gently, Greg stepped forwards with his chest feeling constricted as he reached out to Mycroft. The scaled head pressed into his arms. Burying against his old pyjama shirt with a ragged sigh, Mycroft’s eyes drifted shut while the sigh’s hot air ran over Gregs exposed arms. “There you go, Mycroft.” He murmured as his mind struggled to keep up with everything that was happening to him. The dragon’s head was solid and weighty in his arms. Every little shift of Mycroft’s neck moved his snout just a bit and the scales caught on the fabric of Greg’s shirt. It was unbelievable. Yet the physical presence pressing into him reminded him that it was indeed reality.  


The massive jaw parted in a hiss that caused Greg’s heart to stutter in his chest. With a jolt of electric awareness, Greg looked up. John was standing besides the tattered and bruised wing that Greg knew was broken just by the way Mycroft was favoring it. The doctor’s hands were gliding over the joints that were at angles that looked painful. Greg heard a deepening rumble that took longer to build as Mycroft’s breathing deepened to a harsher rhythm. The exhaled breath was as hot as steam across his bare arms.  


“I have to set it before I can heal it. Hold on to that jaw, Greg. I doubt he’ll bite you.” John announced. He was done with his inspection of the injury. Holding Mycroft’s head close, Greg watched as John stepped back from the wing a meter or so.  


Sherlock’s snort stopped John’s movements, “He wouldn’t bite Greg, no. Anyone else, however.”  


“Shut up, Sherlock.” Two voices- one pained and rough, the other husky and protective- rose from the same spot in the room. Sherlock scoffed.  


“I'll third that, Sherlock. For once, give me some peace and quiet to complete my work. You can be a rude arse later.” Scolding complete and Sherlock silenced, John pulled a silver dagger from its sheath in his pocket. That was oddly concerning. There wasn't any job for a dagger in setting a bone. “Hold him steady, Greg. I'm going to set the bone here correctly. Mycroft has a clean break on his radius, and what's likely to be some extensive bruising and maybe a fracture on his ulna and forearm section of his wing. I can heal it once the bone’s set, but you've got have a good hold on him so he doesn't whip his head around. It's for everyone's safety. Those neck muscles are far stronger than you'd imagine, and getting whacked by his head wouldn't be a good experience.”  


“I've got him.” Or so Greg thought. Mycroft’s head pushed into his arms further as John spoke. He was obviously aware of the danger he posed to the others in the room given his size and strength. Then two things struck him at once when he saw the trembling tail tucking around Mycroft’s hind legs. “What about his tail? Why not try this outside where there's more space?”  


Mycroft nudged him to get his attention, “My tail will be fine. Worst that could happen is I damage the floorboards, which I can pay to repair later.” He paused, eyes opening to icy slivers as he glanced back to watch John, “And outside is out of the question as the spells that keep this place secluded and protected only extend so far and for so much. Inside, we have all the protection we need from prying eyes and curious ears. It will be alright, Gregory.”  


“I'll take your word for it.” The worry wouldn't disappear even with the reassurance. Greg watched with concern as Mycroft’s eyes slid shut and the weight of his head seemed to pull Greg down towards the floor as he went limp. Scales scratched at his arms but the prick of pain was barely comparable to the aching worry that only seemed to build up.  


Mycroft hummed a quiet agreement. Greg felt a nervous shiver and could hear the scales rustle as Mycroft readied himself.  


John caught Greg’s attention with a strict nod. The dagger was subtly glowing in the doctor’s hands. After everything it was odd but it wasn't that odd. Greg could accept it. Clutching Mycroft’s head, Greg knew what was going to happen now as John started to cut at the air with the tip of the dagger. The air split open and bled with light that formed runes and symbols that Greg couldn't decipher. Magic. Greg felt anxious. A slow, warm puff of air passed over his chest and his anxiety subsided as Mycroft quietly rumbled. Must've been his heartbeat again.  


The runes spiked in brightness before they lowered from their hovering position in the air to wrap around the broken bone in Mycroft’s wing. Mycroft trembled, his nostrils flaring. Greg wondered what those runes felt like right up until a clean snap echoed throughout the living room.  


Whatever peace had existed moments before was broken as the soft rumble soared up to an ear battering roar caught in Mycroft’s throat. The sound of the snap alone had been painful but Mycroft’s reaction was far worse. His tail skittered along the floor in tortured movements as he tried to keep from knocking anything over, and his entire body went tense. Greg struggled to stay standing as Mycroft’s head pushed into his chest. It was like trying to hold a bull in place by the horns. Feet slipping on the rug, Greg felt the sharp edges of Mycroft’s scales digging into the tender flesh of his underarms as Mycroft continued to be wracked over with pain.  


“Mycroft…” Greg stammered, something hot dripping along his arm that he had a suspicion might be his own blood.  


Mycroft’s trembles eased. A low whimper rose that was immediately cut off, as if afraid that someone might have heard it. The head stopped pushing into him as forcefully, instead resting against it weakly. “Continue, John. I am fine.” If Mycroft’s tone was anything to go off of, he was far from fine. Greg could hear the choked fear in it as if it was his own.  


“Alright.” John’s expression was blank as he wrote new runes in the air.  


Mycroft’s scaled head was like sandpaper along his skin as Mycroft prepared for another wave of pain. Greg held him close. “Don't toast me with fire, yeah?”  


The runes began to sink back down as Mycroft weakly chuckled, “Can't breathe fire. Most of us cannot.” Another series of questions rose in Greg’s thoughts but he held off of on them as Mycroft’s talons scrapped at the floor and that powerful head almost pushed him over again. However the rune worked seemed to be causing Mycroft pain. More questions for later, Greg supposed. The questions on his tongue vanished as another series of quiet whimpers were muffled by Greg’s shirt.  


This continued for a long minute or two then stopped with a wrecked sigh from Mycroft. He tottered forwards and collapsed with another long sigh at Greg’s feet with the entirety of his body and wings slumped towards Greg. Still cradling Mycroft’s head, Greg ran his hand along the limp jaw, trying to bring some energy forth into his newest companion. “Mycroft? You alright?” The only answer was a mumble, and a tired, strained one at that.  


John stepped around the splayed out wing, “He’ll be okay. Give him time to get himself back together. The magic just speeds up natural processes, so it's drained his energy. He should shift back to his human form within half an hour.”  


A snicker rose from Sherlock’s general direction, “Then you'll be able to meet Fatcroft.”  


“Sherlock!” John hissed with that voice that could have stopped a storm from moving. “Apologize.”  


“No.” Sherlock responded. Greg saw him rise from the chair to exit the room with John close on his heels.  


“SHERLOCK!” John’s voice boomed.  


Greg shook his head. He had a gut feeling those two were truly something else. There was something familiar in them, as if he'd known them at some point.  


Mycroft’s head shook lightly in Greg’s arms. The weight of it seemed to grow heavier and Greg found himself slowly lowering to the floor to sit with Mycroft’s head across his legs. A low purr made the teeth in Greg’s skull vibrate together, “Your wing looks better.” Greg studied the wing for a moment.  


The weight of Mycroft’s head shifted as he turned his head to look up the detective, “The pain is ebbing, as well. I'm terribly sorry for this, Gregory.” Those silvery grey eyes held Greg’s, “Especially for that cut on your arm. I forgot how…”  


“It's alright, Mycroft. It'll heal.” Greg had forgotten about the cut until Mycroft mentioned it. The burn of the cut returned, and Greg saw the blood staining the side of his shirt, “Not the worst I've ever had.”  


“Perhaps one of the oddest.” Mycroft replied, “Not often you get scratched by a dragon’s head scales.” There was a deep rumble that followed. Something warm wrapped itself up in Greg’s chest, curling up with a quiet murmur. Greg didn't fight it. “But you are right. It'll heal in good time.” That same warmth spread deeper into Greg’s chest as Mycroft sighed comfortably and rested. Greg studied the shape of Mycroft’s head. It was similar to an alligators, or maybe something from the age of the dinosaurs with all its ridges and contours, scaled bone ridges above the eyes, and a narrow snout that contained deadly razors for teeth. It was terrifying. It was gorgeous. Running his hand over the scale covered bottom jaw while minding the more jagged edges, Greg paused when Mycroft’s purring stopped.  


“You alright th-” Greg’s sentence was cut off by surprise. His mouth didn't want to work as the shape of the dragon melted away in a way that Greg struggled to comprehend. It was almost a light, shimmering and glowing, but Greg couldn't feel any heat. It did burn his eyes slightly and the pain shot back through his head to leave a discolored blotch in the center of his vision. Dizzy, Greg took a moment to see what was now a man pulling himself away. The man was had faded red hair that was just starting to recede, strongly set greyish green eyes, and a face who's angles screamed authority. And it was a familiar one in a familiar navy pinstripe suit with a neatly tied Windsor knot tie. “You're the man who comes to my office to take my cases! I knew you weren't just traffic! Traffic my ass!”  


Mycroft sat up abruptly. His hands adjusted his tie in a way that Greg knew had to be a nervous tick. “Yes, we do know each other. And I am sorry about the cases, I had no choice.”  


The cheeky bugger avoided the comment about his job, but Greg knew someone of status and rank with a simple look. “Forget the cases, Mycroft. I know when I'm over my head with things, and I was thankful to see the paperwork off my desk when I couldn't do a thing about any of it. I should've thanked you all those times instead of telling you to bugger off.” He paused, studying Mycroft’s now closed off face. Maybe his armor wasn't those suits he wore, but the scales that covered him in his other form. “You saved my ass, and my time.”  


“You are only saying that because you know me now, and are aware of a secret that could have you killed. Could have me killed.” Mycroft returned the studious gaze. It left Greg with a constricting knot in his throat, “I would not have answered your questions if I had planned to kill you later, if that's what you're concerned about. The line between your world and mine happens to be one of barbed wire and gunpowder. It is not a peaceful one, but I work on keeping it a quiet one.”  


The weight of Mycroft’s words were as heavy as a pile of cinder blocks falling on Greg’s chest. “You didn't mention that earlier.” It wasn't accusatory, but the taste of the new information left a sour tang on Greg’s tongue.  


“You didn't ask, and I didn't seek to worry you more.” The reply was gentle. “But no matter. From here on out you shall have my protection for your care and patience with the situation.”  


Something brushed over Greg’s thoughts like a feather. It was solid, warm, and the color of a motionless sea’s surface. Whatever it was, it coiled up peacefully and settled down like a humming chord in Greg’s mind, purring while protectively lingering. The warmth from whatever it was- a string? If thoughts, mental things, could be strings - seeped throughout Greg. Across from him, Mycroft’s stoic face broke into a faintly relieved smile.  


“What was that?” Greg knew whatever that thing was that Mycroft would know what had just happened.  


The man sitting on the floor near him blinked curiously and then answered, “My protection. And yes, it is magical in nature. Beings like myself don't require runes like John does to manipulate and use it, we simply think it through and that is usually enough.”  


Baring the intrusion on his own mind, Greg fought a string of potentially argumentative questions before settling on one, “What does it do, exactly?” He asked while challenging Mycroft’s gaze.  


“It’ll allow me to know if you're in danger.” Mycroft’s answer was questioned with a lift of Greg’s eyebrows, “It is difficult to explain without starting from the basics of magic and links, but think of it like the status monitors in a hospital. If something happens to you, I'll be alerted. I owe you protection after forcing this world onto you. If I had not have arrived last night in the state I did, you'd be none the wiser besides seeing a familiar face in the inn. This is my way of repaying you.”  


Letting this explanation sink in, Greg inhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair, “Why is it dangerous to know about this world?”  


Mycroft adjusted the length of his sleeves. It was an obvious way to stretch out the time he had to consider his words, but Greg be damned if he said that. “For the same reason my wing was broken and for the same reason, indirectly, that you were sent off of work to hide, Gregory. And that reason has a name. Hunters.” An emotion Greg couldn't identify immediately rose on Mycroft’s face. The flare of Mycroft’s nose, along with the creases of his forehead and the sudden sinking of his eyes screamed worry and fear, but it was not something Mycroft seemed used to displaying.  


“Hunters?” Greg echoed. The worry was contagious. He could feel it building in the dark hole of his stomach.  


“Yes,” Mycroft glanced away briefly, “Hunters. They are an elite, covert team of humans that seek to eliminate all magical beings and the form of our world that they- we- call home. They started during the Dark Ages as groups of people who would hunt down the troublesome evils that leaked between the human societies and the magical ones, but as time went on, their calling changed. Now, they seek to drive us to extinction and ruin our lives.” A series of questions bled into Greg’s mouth as Mycroft spoke but as if he could sense them, Mycroft continued on, “They would also seek out anyone who aims to protect or befriend magical beings. And yes, that would include you. And for your work.” The man took a nervous pause. Greg watched as Mycroft swallowed hard, “The string of murders that you've been pulled away from were the same string of murders I was called to the Conclave to discuss. The Conclave is a governmental body, if you will, that represents magical creatures and allows all of the different species to address issues at hand in a peaceful manner. Our discussion came to the determination that the murders have been conducted out by a Hunter named Moriarty, with no clear targeted species besides that they were simply magical beings. You were pulled from the case and urged to go into hiding before this meeting from my own worry that you would come to harm next as you were closely involved with it. A handful of the officers in your department are also magical beings, and I could not risk their safety. Therefore, the case had to be delegated elsewhere for your team and your own protection.”  


It was more information to take in. Greg’s head felt as if might spill over with all the information he had learned in the last few hours. “You… Took another case from me. To protect me and my team.” Sluggishly, he digested all the bits and pieces Mycroft had thrown at him, “Wait. You know the killer? Why don't you do something about him?”  


“I'm not in a position to, currently. We may know the killer but we have no significant evidence to put him on trial in either your court system or ours. And as of now, we cannot judge the risk of killing him in retaliation, as he leads a band of Hunters and any move we make in return could lead to an all out war.” Mycroft looked as strained as he sounded. His hands curled into fists at his side, only to slowly release a heartbeat or two later. “He's also a rather gifted individual. He was responsible for my wing’s injury, and yet there was nothing I could do in return.”  


“Jesus Christ, Mycroft.” With concern eating away at him, Greg leaned forwards to place a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, hoping to steady or ground the man as he appeared to be teetering on the edge of anger. “How'd he injure your wing? How'd you even fly here without him on your ass?”  


Without hesitation, Mycroft spoke, “Hunters have weapons specifically developed for taking down dragons in flight. They're large crossbows with blunt tipped arrows that are designed to shatter the bones in a dragon’s wings and force it down. Whoever shot at me last night was either a horrible shot, or horribly blind, and missed my forewing’s bones. It allowed me to fly high and fast enough to reach the Inn during the storm, and loose the Hunters in the process. Thank god for John Watson.”  


Greg felt something akin to admiration when he listened to Mycroft speak. Flying with a busted wing? Mycroft made it sound easy. “Dear god, Mycroft. You're amazing.”  


“Am I?” Mycroft questioned with a skeptical shake of his head, “Most tell me to bugger off.”  


With a snort, Greg finally pulled himself off of the floor, “I wouldn't dream of it. You might’ve torched my eyebrows off if I had.”  


“Dragons can't breathe fire.” Came a distant murmur as Mycroft remained sitting for a moment more. “Most cannot anymore, anyways.” A pause. “And I appreciate the compliment, Gregory. It's not something I hear in honesty often.”  


“You're welcome, Mycroft.” Greg offered his hand when Mycroft struggled to stand up. He supposed the other was still achingly weak from the healing, which Greg refused to question at the time as he wasn't sure if magic could ever be explained to him, and helped pull Mycroft up, “But why can't dragons breathe fire anymore? It's such a popular trope.”  


Mycroft whispered a thanks then moved onto Greg’s question, “Dragons cannot naturally produce their own fire as it would cook us from the inside out. Magic is required to drive the process and protect us from our own flames, however, that magic can only come from what's called an anchor. An anchor is a human with whom the dragon shares a bond with, and this bond does not have to be a romantic one. It's something far deeper rooted than that; it’s trust, understanding, and dedication to each other. These anchors are required because the magic for such an ability like fire breathing that is powerful and uncontrollable in most circumstances needs to have an anchor to… well, anchor it down. It helps keep the dragon under control of itself, and the magic from failing or backfiring. Without an anchor, a dragon cannot risk breathing fire as the chance of death is incredibly high.”  


“So, you require someone human to act as a grounding rod for the magic because it's too strong?” Translating it all out loud to himself after Mycroft explained, Greg found himself starting to pace across the living room floor. A lonely scratch mark or two in the rug from Mycroft’s talons caught his attention once in awhile but Greg didn't stop to study them, “Why a human?”  


“Humans rarely posses magic of their own. It makes the grounding that much stronger without interfering magic.” Was Mycroft smiling? Or was it a deceiving twitch of his lips? Greg couldn't tell. Either way, Mycroft was standing against the doorframe that lead out to the hallway while watching Greg pace.  


Greg stopped. “Do you have one?”  


“One what?”  


A lifted eyebrow was all it took for Mycroft to put two and two together.  


“An anchor?” Another uneasy pause, “No, I do not. Many do not. It is far too risky to selfishly pull a human into the dangers that come with knowing about the magical side of existence.” Greg began to open his mouth to speak, but Mycroft cut him off with a shake of his head, “And no, I do not require one and you are of no fault for learning what you have.”  


“Alright, Mycroft. I don't blame you either.” The chord in Greg’s thoughts, consciousness, whatever it was, thrummed with warmth again. “But thank you, for everything so far.” That chord curled up in a way that could have only been happiness. It brought a trace of a smile to Greg’s lips.  


“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet and balance. His expression was relaxed as Greg headed over to the doorframe. They studied each other for the span of a breath before a voice cracked into whatever had been building.  


“Lunch! Boys, lunch! Come help!” Mrs. Hudson’s shout lingered in the space between Mycroft and Greg. Footsteps could be heard from the floor above as John and Sherlock returned from wherever they'd gone to, and Greg had a feeling that Mycroft and him shouldn't remain too long standing there like they lost.  


Mycroft eased off of the doorframe. Greg could spot the imperfect little rumples in Mycroft’s suit as the other man moved. “Come on, we should both eat. I can hear your stomach growl from here.”  


As if agreeing with the man, Greg’s stomach churned loudly, clearly audible over the creaking stairs as Sherlock and John raced downstairs.


End file.
